These Games
by cappuccino girl
Summary: Now she’s adding the balcony to her stack of playing cards. (CJ/Toby)


These Games   
(CJ/Toby)  
  
By Cappuccino Girl  
  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Little ones for ITSOTG & Galileo.   
Disclaimer: What you'll usually find here  
  
Notes: To my dearest beta readers: Thanks for making me brave the unfamiliar and hostile waters of CJ/Toby fic. You know how much a dread writing Toby. I still do, but, as much as I hate admitting it, I did have fun writing this, in a strange and masochistic kind of way.   
  
  
Summary: Now she's adding the balcony to her stack of playing cards.  
  
  
  
She lies here on the balcony, her back on the cold concrete, looking up at the lights of the city as they melt into the stars above. She thinks of the distance that starlight travels, the distance she has travelled to be where she is, and she isn't exactly sure of the reason or what the outcome will be, but the path seems palpable.   
  
He squeezes her hand, and she turns slightly, sees him lying beside her.  
  
she sighs. Scorching spheres of fire. So mysterious, so pretty... So-  
  
he mumbles, uninterested in her trivial analogies.  
  
She smiles gently. My dad gave me a telescope for my 11th birthday, and we'd sit out on the porch in the summer evenings and watch the moon.  
  
I can't remember any birthdays as far back as that, he says into the sky above him.  
  
She moves a little closer and runs her hand over his chest. You can't? I rely on childhood memories to help me keep perspective over what happens now.  
  
I remember when we were younger, he murmurs.  
  
Me too.  
  
It was fun. No pressure. No responsibility.  
  
I like responsibility, she says indignantly.  
  
Bullshit. You enjoy the power you get from it, he states, moving so that he is sitting upright beside her, arm around the small of her back.  
  
She brushes her hair back, and continues to look through the cast iron railing. And now you know me too well. I hate that about you, she laughs quietly while he gazes into her eyes. Remember when you came and asked me to work on the campaign?  
  
You fell into the pool, he chuckles.  
  
She covers her face with her hands. I was mortified. That's why I got so drunk when you took me out to dinner that evening. Well, that, and the fact that it felt so God damn awkward sitting across from you.  
  
You talk crap when you're drunk, by the way. He pauses for a moment. I haven't given in yet, have I?  
  
She looks at him inquisitively. Given in to what?  
  
The bet. She stares blankly back at him. That we'd eventually end up how we were.  
  
Oh, that bet, she says, a flood of emotions filling her mind.  
  
He pauses for a moment before commenting. You remember. That's why you tease me.  
  
She moves back a little. I tease you?  
  
  
  
I don't.  
  
You talked about being good in bed in the Oval Office for God's sake, he exclaims, and her look changes from innocent to flirtatious at those words.  
  
It annoys you, doesn't it? she questions, trying not to laugh.  
  
He sighs, defeated.   
  
Thought of giving in?  
  
Every day, but then I think of how incompatible we were.  
  
Not in every way, surely?  
  
he smiles slyly, slipping his hand under her shirt, feeling the smooth skin beneath.  
  
Sure you don't want to have a retrospective moment? Her breath grows jagged in response to his touch.  
  
he states assertively, removing his hand from underneath her blouse, and she sighs in disappointment.  
  
She leans forward a little, giving him a direct view down the front of her blouse, and watches him turn away. Full of control, aren't you Toby?  
  
You'll babble on about equal opportunities for hours, but in a situation like this, you're always the first to play the sex card, he murmurs, unbuttoning her shirt in response.  
  
Yes. I tease, she beams.  
  
Oh hell, he mumbles, sealing her smile with his lips, almost forgotten sensations rushing through him.   
  
  
She reciprocates confidently, taking control of the moment, only pausing for air. With his warm and uneven breath against her neck, she rubs her hands all over his back, making the hairs on his neck stand up. He pushes her against the railing, kissing her like he did those years ago, noticing the tingling he is causing deep within her. She can't help but notice that he's even better at this than she recalled.  
  
His hands move skilfully under her camisole, the blouse long discarded. She moans his name, ever so softly, seductively. She enjoys games.  
  
He's never been one for talk. Writing is his form of communication, and he keeps it that way. She doesn't care what he might be thinking, for they've never had that kind of thought transfer connection, and it didn't seem to matter much in the back of his car, on her kitchen table, in his bed. Now she's adding the balcony to her stack of playing cards.  
  
he whispers into her ear, and she looks into his eyes, confused. The neighbors might see us out here.  
  
Since when have you cared about that? Her voice is husky, full of longing.  
  
We're pretty important people, and someone might, you know, care that we're all over each other, he says in that matter-of-fact tone he calls his own.  
  
  
  
If this is plastered all over the morning news, you will care, he says, articulately.  
  
She moves away from him a little, his hands lingering on her breast. Yeah, it wouldn't have been a good idea, she says, tossing her hair back and pulling her blouse over her shoulders.  
  
He shrugs in disappointment because he had just intended for them to roll over, through the balcony door, so they'd be inside, and now there is a distance between them and she's buttoning up her shirt.   
  
No, it wouldn't, he agrees out of simplicity, so she won't realise how he longs to lose this bet, even though he's always been a gambling man.  
  
She stands up slowly, grabbing the two empty liquor glasses before moving inside. He stays on the floor a while longer, mentally undressing her, and he recollects how he always felt that she was a class above him, that he was was inadequate for someone as incredible as her. He was proud to be her toy; he still is.  
  
  
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feedback as always to cappuccinogirlie@hotmail.com  
visit the author's website at www.cappuccinogirl.com  
  
  



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